Master Sean handed it to him. "Ever see one like it before?" he asked,
turning it over in his hands.

"Not _exactly_ like it, my lord."

"Come, come, Sean; don't be so cautious. I am no sorcerer, but I don't
need to know the Laws of Similarity to be able to recognise an
_obvious_ similarity."

"Edinburgh," said Master Sean flatly.

"Exactly. Scottish work. The typical Scot gold work; remarkable
beauty. And look at that lock. It has 'Scots' written all over it--and
more. 'Edinburgh', as you said."

Dr. Pateley, having replaced his carefully polished glasses, leaned
over and peered at the weapon in Lord Darcy's hand. "Couldn't it be
Italian, my lord? Or Moorish? In Moorish Spain, they do work like
that."

"No Moorish gunsmith would put a hunting scene on the butt," Lord
Darcy said flatly, "and the Italians wouldn't have put heather and
thistles in the field surrounding the huntsman."

"But the _FdM_ engraved on the barrel," said Dr. Pateley, "indicates
the--"

"Ferrari of Milan," said Lord Darcy. "Exactly. But the barrel is of
much newer work than the rest. So are the chambers. This is a fairly
old gun--fifty years old, I'd say. The lock and the butt are still in
excellent condition, indicating that it has been well cared for, but
frequent usage--or a single accident--could ruin the barrel and
require the owner to get a replacement. It was replaced by Ferrari."

"I see," said Dr. Pateley somewhat humbled.

"If we open the lock ... Master Sean, hand me your small screwdriver.
Thank you. If we open the lock, we will find the name of one of the
finest gunsmiths of half a century ago--a man whose name has not yet
been forgotten--Hamish Graw of Edinburgh. Ah! There! You see?" They
did.

Having satisfied himself on that point, Lord Darcy closed the lock
again. "Now, men, we have the gun located. We also know that a guest
in this very castle is Laird Duncan of Duncan. The Duncan of Duncan
himself. A Scot's laird who was, fifteen years ago, His Majesty's
Minister Plenipotentiary to the Free Grand Duchy of Milan. That
suggests to me that it would be indeed odd if there were not some
connection between Laird Duncan and this gun. Eh?"

* * * * *

"Come, come, Master Sean," said Lord Darcy, rather impatiently. "We
haven't all the time in the world."

"Patience, my lord; patience," said the little sorcerer calmly. "Can't
hurry these things, you know." He was kneeling in front of a l